


Palms and Recreation

by LetItRaines



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Co-workers, F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 10:38:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15683742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetItRaines/pseuds/LetItRaines
Summary: Bartenders at hotels are just supposed to serve you drinks, not change your entire life, but Emma Swan’s life never seems to go as planned.





	Palms and Recreation

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork for this and a link to my tumblr can be found [here](https://let-it-raines.tumblr.com/post/177320722195/palms-and-recreation%20rel=)

She works at a hotel.

 

Scratch that.

 

She works at a resort that is _an oasis inside of the oasis_.

 

At least, according to the website.

 

Like, chandeliers and oversized couches in the lobby, palm trees scattered throughout the property, pools (yes, two) with water so blue you think it must be an illusion, tennis courts and restaurants and a spa oh my!

 

She works at a resort in Palm Springs, California, playground of the rich and famous year round – and living space of the retired elderly, but no one ever mentions that part when they tell you to come to Palm Springs.

 

How she got here isn’t that interesting. Well, not to her, but it seems to be to everyone else when they’re trying to get to know her. Usually, she lies. She tells them she’s just never felt comfortable in one place, that she enjoys moving around, moving on to the next adventure. And if she smiles just right, shows just enough teeth and bats her eyelashes just so, they don’t ask anymore. They accept it, and they move on.

 

She wants to move on.

 

But it’s kind of like she’s stuck in her head, stuck in this place, stuck in her life.

 

But this is also the first place that’s ever even slightly felt like a home. That’s ever felt like hers.

 

The reason she lies when people ask about her background is because it’s not a pretty story. She’s an orphan who grew up without a home, without family, without friends, without a plan for what to do with her life. She always just had to think about her next step, never having time to think of more than just how she was going to put food in her belly that day.

 

When she turned eighteen, her current foster home was in Phoenix, so she figured that’s just where she’d stay. Especially because she met a guy who made her feel like she was finally something special.

 

Turns out, she was special.

 

Special enough for the guy to frame her for some of his screw-ups (see: crimes), to tell the cops _my girlfriend did it, not me_. And if he hadn’t been such an idiot, hadn’t committed the crimes while she was at work waitressing tables at a Red Lobster, fifty people as her alibi, she probably would have gone to jail while he walked free.

 

If you look up the definition of an asshole in the dictionary, you would get some pretty unpleasant pictures next to the definition, his face included.

 

Instead, she walked free, and he went behind bars. But she wasn’t unscathed, not in the slightest. She walked away with a broken heart and the belief that she would never be anything other than some kind of pathetic pawn in the game of life.

 

Arizona suddenly felt incredibly small, like it wasn’t an entire state and was just the small apartment she had been living in. The heat was suffocating, and she just couldn’t take it anymore.

 

So she moved.

 

Saved some money, any money she could get her hands on, working two jobs and double shifts, and started working her way toward California. A part of her wanted to go east, toward places like Boston and New York, but she was a waitress with a GED. She couldn’t afford that. So to California she went.

 

If she’s honest with herself, it wasn’t her brightest idea to travel 268.2 miles (yes, she looked it up) to just another hot, desert town. But the bus fare was cheap, and she knew it was a touristy town, a place where she could get a waitressing job pretty quickly – and hopefully get good tips from the tourists and the elderly who lived there. And if she was lucky, she could get a job at one of the nicer restaurants, where the patrons will sometimes heavily tip just because they can.

 

When she looked in the paper for jobs – because that’s what you did when you didn’t have a computer – she found an ad listed for a restaurant inside one of the nicer inclusive resorts. It was kind of a long shot – she worked at a Red Lobster for goodness sakes – but when she gets to the interview, the older woman who manages the restaurant likes her. And somehow, she gets hired at a job that pays higher (much higher) than minimum wage _plus_ tips.

 

It’s the biggest break she’s ever gotten, and when she finds a little studio apartment in walking distance from her job that she can afford, she thinks that she might cry tears of joy.

 

She will never admit to it, but she does.

 

So things are going great for her for a little while. Not great by most people’s standards, but great for a girl who’s frankly had a pretty shitty life, so she’ll take what she can get. Always has. Probably always will.

 

When she turns 21, she’s been working at the White Palms restaurant for two and a half years, and her coworkers double as her friends. She’s never really had friends, so this is kind of a new thing to her. They talk to her – ask her about her day, ask her if she wants to go out to grab dinner someplace they don’t work, ask her if she’s okay when she shows up to work with eyes rimmed in red after a particularly bad night of memories of being a lost girl – and while she’s not great with the communicating and the sharing at first, she learns how to be a friend.

 

And it’s at 21 that she realizes that not everyone in the world is going to treat her like she’s nothing.

 

She’s not nothing. She was never nothing.

 

By the time she’s 25, she’s got a life that she’s pretty proud of if she does say so herself. She’s now the manager of the restaurant, the woman who hired her having retired and recommended Emma for the job. She works on a salary ( _a salary_ ) and if she wants to buy herself a new top, she can. No questions asked.

 

She’s never moved out of that studio apartment, but she doesn’t need to. She’s only one person, and she doesn’t have a lot of stuff. But the stuff that she does have is _hers_ , unequivocally. That apartment is her little safe haven, everything draped in soft lighting with fluffy blankets and pillows filling the room. Of all the things she’s been able to accomplish, having a place of her very own that’s more than just four walls to sleep in is the one that probably means the most to her.

 

When she’s 27, a job opens up with the resort. Not just with the restaurant, but with the _actual_ resort. Some sort of management position, and she just stares at the posting on her computer when the email comes in. They’re looking for someone who already works there with management experience.

 

_She already works there, and she has management experience._

 

Technically she meets the qualifications, but she’s sure there are other people who are much more qualified, who have more experience. So she doesn’t apply. She doesn’t apply until it’s the deadline, and she tells herself _you just never know until you try_ , and when she hits submit on the application at 11:45 PM, she lets out a sigh of relief, butterflies taking root in her stomach, fluttering around like they never have before.

 

She tries to forget about it, tries to forget that she’s trying for something more than what she already has. But every time her phone vibrates with a text, she’s jumping toward it hoping that an email came in instead. Every time her phone rings, she’s answering before she can even check caller ID.

 

Two weeks after she submitted her application, she gets a call at work asking her to go to HR. She figures it’s just something about the new direct deposit with her paycheck, but when she gets there, she’s directed to an office she’s never been to before.

 

And suddenly she’s terrified that she’s about to get fired.

 

When she opens the door, it’s to the head manager of the entire resort telling her that while she didn’t get accepted for the management job she applied for, they want her to work as one of their managers of customer relations – basically she would make sure customers are happy, but her main job would be planning events at the hotel.

 

The events coordinator, to be exact.

 

Apparently, she gets great reviews from guests – she didn’t even know she got reviewed by guests – and the administration thinks her management skills and people skills would really translate well as their events coordinator.

 

She doesn’t understand why the hell they would want her for that, but obviously they must see something in her that she doesn’t see – management and people skills, apparently. They did reach out to her, after all, offering her a job she didn’t apply for.

 

So she takes it. If they’re crazy enough to want to give her a new job, an important job for their profits, then she’s not going to be crazy enough to question it.

 

She’s sad to leave the restaurant and all of her friends that she’s made there, but she will still work with them on events and on the same property, so it’s not like she’ll never see them again. Plus, they’re her friends. They hang out.

 

So her life changes again, but the important things stay the same.

 

Her first big assignment involves a corporate event for some tech CEOs who have come to the city for “business,” but mostly to utilize their golf courses and get away from their significant others for a couple of days.

 

She’s nervous. She won’t admit that to anyone else, but she is. She doesn’t want to screw up. She doesn’t want to get fired. She’s scared to know what will happen if she gets fired. Will she be allowed to go back to work at the restaurant, or will she have to go find someplace new to work? Oh, fuck.

 

That thought terrifies her, so she digs into her work, driving herself almost into the ground. But that’s par for the course for this new job.

 

So is making golf jokes, apparently.

 

It’s technically a two-day event, but the guests are staying a little longer. They’re not really her problem then, even if she did book their block of rooms, so she takes a deep breath and tells herself that she can survive two days.

 

And she does.

 

It goes on more smoothly than a fresh jar of Skippy (Peter Pan is obviously the better peanut butter if you ask her, but that’s not what Bruno Mars put in the song, now is it?). They like the food she picked to serve for their resort-provided meals, the alcohol she chose to be supplied at the open bar, the music she selected to be played during cocktail hour.

 

They liked everything, including her. She kept getting stopped on her way through the ballroom to talk to some of the guests, them complimenting her on how _this is just so well run compared to last year._

 

She’s a girl who was almost put in jail nine years ago, and she’s talking to men and women who are worth millions of dollars. And they don’t bat an eye at her. They think she’s welcome to be in the same room as them and actually enjoy talking to her.

 

It’s absolutely insane in every way.

 

Her life is absolutely insane in every way.

 

But she loves it.

 

She never thought she’d love her life, but she does.

 

And suddenly she doesn’t want to escape anymore.

 

When summer rolls around that year, she’s been in this new job for six months, but nothing could have prepared her for the craziness that is summer. They’re booked to capacity every single day, and she feels like she doesn’t have room to breathe.

 

After a particularly long day, one that’s seen three different moms yell at her for their children not having a space in the daycare center – _resort policy says you must book 24 hours in advance to guarantee a spot. I’m sorry. Would you like a complimentary drink at the one of our bars?_ – she decides she, too, needs a drink. She needs a drink, but she doesn’t want to go home and change out of her khaki shorts and white resort-issued polo _and then_ go find somewhere to get that drink. So she stops in the Clubhouse in between the pools.

 

Surprisingly, she’s never been in this part of the resort. She’s never needed to. She’s always seen it when she does events by the pools and the surrounding lakes, but all of her catering comes from the restaurant. Loyalty lies where loyalty lies, she guesses. When she walks in, she shouldn’t be surprised by how nice it is, but it’s like her entire life is full of surprises now.

 

There are floor to ceiling windows looking out to the lake on one side, view of the sunset reflecting off the water, and looking out to the pools on the other. It’s beautiful, she thinks. And it’s not that crowded, another surprise, so she really wonders why she’s never come here to relax after work.

 

Probably because she spends too much time at this damn place.

 

This wonderful place.

 

But this damn place.

 

When she gets to the bar, there are only a few other people so she’s able to sit by herself, pulling out her phone to check her messages – because she never really does leave work, does she – as she waits on the bartender to finish serving a patron. She recognizes the guest – his wife is one of the women who yelled at her earlier, so he probably does need a drink.

 

She’s on her phone replying to an email from a vendor for the yet-to-be-named (it’s driving her crazy that she can’t think of a name) end of the summer season party she’s throwing in three months at the end of September, so she doesn’t notice when the bartender moves toward her.

 

“What can I get you, lass?”

 

Well that accent wasn’t expected.

 

She’s getting tired of all of these surprises. Can’t some things just happen normally?

 

She finishes her email quickly and looks up to see the owner of the Irish accent. She’s taken aback for a second. But just a quick one. She doesn’t let men get to her. Not anymore.

 

He’s attractive in the way that every man wants to be, unruly dark hair atop his head and a ginger-tinted beard across his jaw, bright blue eyes contrasted against the dark tan of his skin, and a subtly toned physique hidden under the blue button-up that’s apparently his uniform. When she looks down, slyly of course, he’s got on khaki shorts, and they just seem so out of place on him. It’s like she instinctively knows that he was made to wear something like black skinny jeans, not khaki shorts and a polo.

 

She processes all of this quickly, realizing she doesn’t want to get caught staring because this man is technically her coworker, so that could probably be considered workplace harassment.

 

“Yeah, a glass of Pinot Noir, please,” she finally says, trying to make it seem like she wasn’t just staring at him.

 

“Sure thing.”

 

In what has to be the fastest service she’s ever received, her glass of wine is sitting in front of her. And she knows from years of working in the restaurant here that he’s served her much more than the allotted resort serving size for wine.

 

But she’s not going to complain, just drinks her wine as Irish bartender deals with the husband of Satan at the other end of the bar.

 

She’s looking out the windows watching the people in one of the pools. It’s time for the movie of the night, something they do during the summer season. They’ve got a large projector set up between some of the artificial palm trees, and it’s night three of their Harry Potter marathon (she picks the movies, obviously).

 

She’s distracted watching the movie, sipping a little on her wine, so she doesn’t notice that Irish bartender has moved back to her side.

 

“You’re the events coordinator, right?”

 

She’s glad she finished her sip of wine because she definitely would have done a spit take at that, this random stranger knowing who she is. “Um,” she replies slowly, eyes flitting around the room and wondering if Satan’s husband over there will help her if the bartender is a stalker.

 

“I’m not a stalker,” he starts, putting his hands in the air in defense. Not a stalker, but apparently a mind reader. “I see you putting on events out by the pools and out on the deck. I kind of have a view of everything from in here, so I notice things.”

 

“Ah, okay,” she replies slowly, this time a little less freaked out. But she doesn’t say anything else.

 

“I’ve also noticed that you never have any of the bartenders from the Clubhouse do any of your events. It’s always the White Palms bartenders.”

 

It doesn’t sound like an accusation, not with the casual tone he’s using, but it is, even as he’s across the bar from her, sharp profile in her view as he takes a turn staring out at the movie, seemingly paying no attention to her.

 

She must have some sort of awful scowl on her face, and he actually must be paying attention to her astonishingly enough, because he quickly tacks on, “not that I’m complaining or criticizing you at your job. You’re bloody fantastic at it, I’m sure. It’s just that if we’re not hired for the events, we don’t get the tips. And it would help a lot of people out.”

 

She doesn’t really know how to respond to that, but Irish bartender is right. He’s calling her out on her job, and as much as she doesn’t want to admit it, he’s right.

 

And she feels awful.

 

Just, like, a horrible person.

 

“You’re right,” she sighs, and his head snaps back to her, blue eyes going wide and eyebrows raising with them like the last thing he expected was for her to admit that he was right. “I was a waitress at the White Palms for six years, and I was a waitress at various chain restaurants for two years before that. So I get what it’s like when tips are a huge part of your life, and frankly, it’s been shitty of me to isolate the bartenders I hire. I should have never done that, and I’m sorry. I guess I let my loyalty to my old coworkers lead me to be biased, and that’s not okay.”

 

He’s still staring at her with those wide eyes, and she figures that he probably didn’t expect all of that. He probably thought she was some sort of spoiled party planner who has never worked a low wage job in her life.

 

Apparently she can surprise people too.

 

Including herself because she definitely didn’t mean to share quite that much.

 

“I – I…thank you, love,” he finally tells her, lopsided grin on his face. It’s so unbelievably charming that she finds herself putting her wine down and reaching across the bar to shake his hand.

 

“Emma Swan,” she says, giving his hand the three firm shakes she’s been trained to do.

 

“Killian Jones,” he replies, still smiling at her. “It’s nice to meet you Emma Swan, events coordinator. I hope to be working with you soon.” He gives her the most over exaggerated wink she’s ever seen, but he seems to be pretty pleased with himself, so she’s just going to let it slide.

 

“Came in for a drink, left with a business deal,” she laughs to herself, picking up her wine off the bar to take another sip.

 

“Gotta always be hustling, Swan.” He pauses for a second, seeming to debate if he should say his next thought. Apparently he decides to just go for it because the next words out of his mouth have her legitimately laughing for the first time that day. “Time is money. Money is Power. Power is pizza. Pizza is knowledge.”

 

“Did you seriously just quote Parks and Recreation?”

 

“Aye,” he confirms, scratching behind his ear and leaning on his elbows on the bar counter. “Was taking a shot that you’d recognize it. Can’t tell you how relieved I am that you do or I would have made a complete arse out of myself.”

 

He’s cute, she thinks to herself. She didn’t want to admit anything past physical attractiveness when he was calling her out for not being fair with her hiring practices, but he’s charming. And he apparently has good taste in television shows.

 

“I’m a big comedy fan,” she tells him, smiling at his worry over making an _arse_ of himself. “Parks and Rec, The Office, 30 Rock, Superstore, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Brooklyn 99. You name it. I’ve seen it.”

 

“That’s a lot of television, lass.” He’s very good at judging her without his tone sounding judgmental.

 

“And your point is?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as if to say _do not challenge me_.

 

“No point,” he says, raising an eyebrow right back at her. “I just quoted a show word for word, so obviously I’ve been to known to watch a lot of television, will probably do so when I get home tonight.”

 

“And what time is that?” It comes out much more…suggestive than she intended and oh my god she can’t believe she just asked that. How red is her face right now? Can she go jump in the lake and just swim far, far away?

 

“Are you propositioning me, lass?” he laughs out, hand covering his chest as he throws his head back, his body shaking with laughter.

 

“I’m so, so sorry. I did not mean it to sound like that. I guess I’ve just spent so much time managing shifts and being on shifts that it’s automatic for me to ask.”

 

She’s going to get fired. First, she’s biased in her hiring. Now she’s propositioning her coworker while he’s at work. Oh my god, and she totally checked him out earlier. She really is going to get fired.

 

“I think it’s time for me to go home.” She tells him, pulling cash out of her short’s pockets to pay for her drink and give him a tip. “It was nice to meet you.” She’s not sure if she really means it because this has been embarrassing in so many ways, but she says it anyway, getting up and walking away at what she hopes is a normal pace.

 

“I get off at eleven, Swan,” he yells out as she walks away, and she just knows he’s got a smug smile on his face. “It was an absolute _pleasure_ to meet you.”

 

The way he says pleasure makes a chill run down her spine.

 

Nope. No. Not going there.

 

So she doesn’t go there.

 

She avoids the Clubhouse for the next two days, effectively making it to the weekend, which, for most people, means they get to go home from work and do whatever they want. Not for her. She works Saturdays and Sundays and has Mondays and Tuesdays off. It’s kind of a weird schedule, but she doesn’t mind.

 

Well, she minds a little because she’s trying to avoid the Clubhouse and Killian and how she embarrassed herself the other night. But she needs to go in there to at least work out a schedule for events for those bartenders.

 

So as she pushes up the glass doors, she tells herself that it’s purely for business reasons.

 

When she sidles up to the bar, Killian isn’t there. Instead it’s two girls wearing the same uniform as Emma.

 

“Hi,” Emma starts, her voice squeaking slightly. And oh my god did her voice just squeak? The girls don’t seem to notice, just looking at her as if they’re waiting for her drink order, which considering that’s their job, they probably are. “Can I speak with your manager?”

 

Wow, first her voice squeaks like a pubescent boy and now she’s asking if she can speak to the manager like a middle-aged woman unhappy with her service.

 

“Sure,” girl one says, voice peppy as can be. “I’ll just go to the back and get him.”

 

Emma’s left standing with the other girl, and she really should learn their names, but she’ll deal with that later. When the first girl returns, she’s got Killian trailing behind her, animatedly talking, and with the way her week is going she definitely should have expected that he’s the manager of the Clubhouse and not just a bartender.

 

When he sees Emma, he gets this wide smile on his face like he’s actually happy to see her. He probably is. She kept putting her foot in her mouth the other night, and she bets that he’s ready for her to embarrass herself all over again.

 

But he doesn’t mention anything from the other night, just smiles and asks _what can_ _I do for you, lass_. She’s brought her laptop with her, excel spreadsheets of upcoming events all laid out, and she gets with Killian over scheduling his employees at the events – mixed in with the White Palms employees as well, of course.

 

After about two hours of work, Killian leaving to go take calls and sign for orders occasionally, the two of them have every pre-planned event, including the yet-to-be-named end of summer blow out bash (she really needs a name for it, and it’s still driving her _insane_ that she can’t think of one) scheduled. It’s a perfect mixture of employees from each bar, and she’s pretty proud of herself for this, even if she shouldn’t have made the hiring mistake in the first place.

 

June slowly (hotly) moves into July, the temperature so high that Emma finds herself popping into any air conditioned building that she can. She gets a tan just by working, running around the grounds and driving around on the golf cart she was just issued (that’s right, she gets a golf cart), and she just knows that her entire body is covered in the freckles that seem to appear with the sun.

 

Her new favorite air conditioned spot is the Clubhouse. But no, not because Killian works there. She spends a lot of time doing outdoor activities during the summer, longing for winters when people do things inside, and the Clubhouse just happens to be the nearest enclosed building between the pools and the golf course.

 

Killian is there though. Like, consistently. She wonders if he ever goes home. Of course, she very rarely goes home as well. She honestly can’t remember the last time she was there for more than just showering and sleeping, even on her days off. She should probably change that before she gets overworked. She could use a day.

 

But she doesn’t have one. She just continues working.

 

And the Clubhouse becomes her office of sorts. She has an office, technically, but it’s so far removed from where she works during the day that she only bothers going by in the mornings to pick up her mail. So she sets up shop at the bar counter, talking on her phone to guests and potential event holders and staff while ordering supplies on her computer, everything carefully color-coded.

 

Killian supplies her with coffee without her asking – she honestly didn’t know there was a coffee maker out here – and it only takes her saying _with milk and two sugars_ one time before he gets it right every time after that. When she takes a sip of the coffee on the second day he gives it to her, she’s pleasantly surprised that he remembered. When it happens again on the third day, she realizes that she could get used to this.

 

It’s like Killian can anticipate every one of her needs – _you’re a bit of an open book, darling_ – and while it freaks her out having someone know her so well so quickly, she honestly kind of likes it.

 

It scares her a little, the fast friendship they seemed to have formed. But she likes it.

 

She likes that he knows when she comes in before ten, it’s for coffee. She likes that he knows when she comes in the middle of the day, it’s for a bottle of water and a box fan to dry the sweaty hair at the nape of her neck and the pool of sweat that has collected at the small of her back – it’s hot as hell, okay. She likes that he knows when she comes in after six, it’s for a drink and someone to talk to about her day.

 

She likes that when a flamingo somehow got from the lake to one of the pools, effectively causing the whole place to lose its collective mind, he offered half priced-drinks just to get some of the crowd away from the pool. It’s what eventually allowed the guy who’s in charge of the flamingos, because there really is a guy for that, to get it safely back home.

 

It made her want to kiss Killian to thank him for that, but she doesn’t. Because that would be really damn weird. And she probably couldn’t handle it and the conflicting emotions that would come with that.

 

So she doesn’t kiss him, just goes on with this thing they’ve got going and prays that the flamingos don’t show up in the pool again.

 

Eventually she gets so comfortable at the bar that Killian moves her stuff back to his office, crafting her a little makeshift desk in the corner facing his desk. He says it’s because she brings the mood down with all that talk about business in front of the guests, but she thinks (hopes despite her best efforts not to because she’s a coward) that it’s because he’s technically only working out front at night and maybe, just maybe, he wants to spend time with her.

 

So they get to know each other back in that little office as June melts into July, and Emma organizes a fireworks display so explosive (yes, it’s Killian’s pun) to celebrate the good ole US of A on Independence Day.

 

They don’t tell their life stories outright, and Emma is rather thankful for that. But it’s enough for Emma to know that she likes Killian. Likes his sense of humor and his taste in television shows. Likes how he hums songs while he fills out the Clubhouse’s books – even if those songs are Christmas songs 90% of the time. Likes how he scratches just below his ear when she makes a dirty joke – because she’s still doing great at the embarrassing herself in front of Killian thing. Likes that he knows when she needs to talk and when she just needs to be left alone.

 

One day when Emma is buying floats for the pools – like the ones you see on Instagram, the flamingos and unicorns and slices of pizza – she can’t decide if she should buy two swan floats (yes, she gets the irony) or four. She’s apparently been debating on the merits of swan floats and donut floats for too long because she hears Killian let out just the most frustrated groan from his desk in front of her.

 

“We’re taking a day off,” he tells her, like it’s final and like he has any control over what she does.

 

“Killian,” she sighs out, deciding on three versions of fifteen different types of floats, “you know I can’t do that.”

 

“You have tomorrow off, aye?”

 

She lets out a little whine and before she can open her mouth to tell him that she does, but she still has to work, he’s telling her that under no circumstances is she coming to work tomorrow. He’s taking the day off, and they’re going to do something together. Something fun and non-work related, and _don’t question me, Swan, I’m picking you up at your apartment at nine_.

 

So it’s eight thirty in the morning on her day off, an actual day off, and she’s standing in her closet trying to decide what to wear. It’s supposed to get over 100 degrees today, and when she texted Killian to ask what she was supposed to wear, he just texted back to _be prepared for anything_. Like that helps.

 

So she pulls on her favorite pair of high-waisted jean shorts – they’re frayed at the end and probably too short, but she’s twenty seven years old and can wear whatever she damn wants – and a gray bralette, throwing a loose tank top on over it and tucking it into the shorts. When she slips on her converses and braids her hair into two french braids parted down the middle, she realizes that she looks like every girl who comes to the resort during Coachella.

 

Whatever. This is comfortable and cute, and the hairstyle keeps the sweat from pooling at the base of her neck. Plus, she needs to get rid of the farmer’s tan her polo gives her.

 

When Killian knocks on her door at 8:59, one minute early, she suddenly feels nervous for the first time in a long time – probably since she started this job. They’re not going on a date, but it sure as hell feels like one – it sure has hell feels like they’ve been living in this weird relationship limbo for the past month. It’s probably just because this is the first time they’ve hung out outside of work, even if they spend a lot of time there after working hours. So it just feels kind of…different.

 

But it’s not different. It’s just a day doing supposedly fun things with a coworker who just happens to be a friend and that friend just happens to be a guy that she kind of maybe definitely likes.

 

Before she can hype herself up too much, she answers the door, and Killian is standing there in gray shorts and a t-shirt, short sleeved plaid shirt unbuttoned on top of it, showing off his biceps. When she looks down, he’s got on the same pair of converse sneakers she does, and she can’t help but laugh at how stereotypical Palm Springs tourist they look.

 

When she’s finished laughing, she tells him that they’ve been living here too long. If it goes on for much longer, they’re going to start golfing every day and taking pictures of their food next to wall murals every night.

 

He just smiles at her as he puts his hand on her lower back and guides her out of the apartment.

 

“We’re about to have a touristy day, love,” he tells her, laughing when she looks up at him in surprised disgust. “But it’s going to be fun. And there will be no worrying about balloon arches or bloody pizza floats.”

 

She’s wary of this “touristy day” they’re going to have. She did a little bit of that stuff when she first moved here, just to check it all out, but she avoids downtown like the plague.

 

When he helps her into his truck – _gentleman, love_ – she has absolutely no idea we’re they’re going. He’s purposely taking wrong turns, and it’s driving her insane that he’s basically playing a game with her – _relax, Swan_.

 

After about thirty minutes in the car, and her making him stop to get her breakfast and coffee, she finally figures out where they’re going when she sees the glass pods of the damn aerial tramway.

 

“No fucking way,” she mutters under her breath.

 

“Excited, love?” he asks, not hearing the slight shake in her voice.

 

She likes to think of herself as a badass – she _is_ a badass – but she’s terrified of heights. Always has been, probably always will be.

 

“No fucking way, Killian,” she repeats, but this time it’s with conviction. “I don’t do heights.”

 

He doesn’t say anything at first, just parks the truck and then turns to her, concerned look on his face but with an entirely too reassuring smile, not that it’s reassuring her that much.

 

“Emma,” he starts, looking at her directly in the eyes, like he’s looking into her soul. Woah, calm down, drama queen. “We don’t have to do it if you’re scared. We can do something else. But I promise the view is worth it, and if it helps, you can hold my hand the entire way up.” He wiggles his eyebrows at that last part, and she can’t help but let out a small laugh, even if it does sound pathetic to her own ears.

 

She really doesn’t want to, but he just looks so hopeful. And she hates to not go along with his plans. He did plan this entire day for her. No one has ever done anything like that for her. And maybe if she just closes her eyes, she’ll have no idea that she’s up in the air.

 

So she tells him that she’ll do it, and his smile is bright enough to light this whole desert on fire.

 

She kind of feels like she’s going to throw up the entire time they’re waiting in line to buy tickets, and when they load into the tram, she grabs onto Killian’s hand before it even starts. He moves to interlace his fingers with hers, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze as the tramway starts moving up the mountain.

 

She’s got her eyes closed and is chanting _it’s just ten minutes, it’s just ten minutes, it’s just ten minutes_ over and over again in her head.

 

Killian starts talking to her about a time he and his brother went on a rollercoaster when Killian was ten. He so rarely talks about Liam after one whispered confession that _he died, Swan_ in the Clubhouse after work that she opens her eyes and looks up at him. Not outside, but up at him.

 

He’s looking out at what she’s sure is an incredible view of mountains and trees as he tells the story about how he was so bloody scared because the rollercoaster went upside down, and he’d never ridden one like that before. Liam told him that it was only scary when you’re anticipating it. Once you’re actually flying through the air, adrenaline pumping through your veins, it’s amazing. Like being free of all of the stress and responsibilities of life. You just have to take the leap of faith first.

 

It’s a surprisingly deep story to have started off with Killian being nervous about a rollercoaster, but she imagines that’s what Killian intended. So she thinks about taking that leap of faith and conquering one of her fears, squeezing his hand more tightly as she turns her head from him to look out at the view.

 

It’s stunning. Miles and miles of trees mixed in with the desert and the mountains, the city in the near distance. It’s also terrifying to know just how high up she is, and when she tenses just the slightest bit, heart beating quickly and bile rising in her throat, Killian must be able to feel it. So he pulls her into his side and just kind of holds here there, his skin warm against hers, hands still intertwined.

 

And suddenly her heart is beating quickly for an entirely different reason.

 

Once they get to the top, she’s not so nervous anymore – she doesn’t think about the fact that they have to go back down – and as they exit the tram, Killian doesn’t let go of her hand, guiding her out and onto the mountain top where people are scattered around either hiking or taking pictures.

 

They spend a few hours up there, wandering around to look at the different views, and Killian asks other people if they’d be willing to take a picture of the two of them, handing off his phone and wrapping his arm around her shoulder, smile wide as can be.

 

When she looks at the picture later, she’s stunned by how amazing it is, the two of them so small compared to the mountains in the background. But she looks happy and unstressed, and that stuns her most of all.

 

After they make it back the level ground, Emma only freaking out a little bit in the tram, Killian takes her to an In-N-Out Burger.

 

“Are you serious,” she laughs as he pulls into the parking lot, getting out of the truck.

Apparently they’re going inside.

 

“You bet your arse, I’m serious, Swan.” He’s opening up the door before her, letting her go in first – _gentleman, Swan_ , he reminds her. “This is our touristy day, and you and I both know the burgers here are damn good.”

 

And they are. She knows this. As someone who doesn’t cook, she’s eaten here a few more times than she’s willing to admit. And if she eats both her fries and then half of Killian’s animal fries, no one has to know but the two of them.

 

When evening rolls around, she thinks that maybe he’s going to take her home and that the day will be over. The pang of disappointment she feels in her chest hurts, but he just looks over at her from his place in the driver’s seat and grabs her hand, pulling it over to rest on his thigh.

 

They’re not going home, though. They’re going downtown, and she has no idea what could make him want to brave the traffic.

 

But he just parks in one of the parking garages, paying the fee, and as he leads her down the sidewalks to wherever it is they’re going, he has his arm wrapped around her waist, and she thinks that this is one of the best days she’s ever had.

 

After about ten minutes of walking, she figures out that they’re going to the street fair that happens once a week, vendors and live entertainment lining three blocks of downtown streets. She went once, when she was eighteen years old and by herself, but it didn’t quite feel this magical, with the lights strung around the palm trees, the R&B music playing in the background, and the smell of fried food wafting through the evening air.

 

They walk around for awhile, looking at different vendors. Emma spends at least forty minutes looking at some folk art, and if Killian minds having to carry around a painting she bought to put over her couch, he doesn’t say anything.

 

With the day she’s had and the beer she’s consumed, she’s feeling like today is one of those perfect days that only exist in movies. And when Killian pulls her off the bench where she was resting her feet so they can dance, she doesn’t even question it. Just lets him twirl her around, swapping partners with some of the older couples dancing along to the live music with them.

 

And when the night is over and Killian is walking her back up to her apartment door, for the first time in a long time, she isn’t surprised. She isn’t surprised when he bends his head so that his lips can meet hers. And she isn’t surprised when she kisses him right back, standing up on her toes and wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him closer.

 

It’s simple, and it’s sweet. And if she wanted it to go further, he doesn’t let it, kissing her cheek and telling her that _I’ll see you tomorrow, love_ as he walks away, leaving her standing in front of her apartment door with a goofy grin on her face.

 

As July sizzles into August, they don’t talk about the kiss. They just keep doing it.

 

In the mornings before work starts, she’ll give him a quick peck, moving away to go start her day. In the afternoons when she’s stopping by to get a bottle of water, he’ll grab her by the waist and pull her into his office, pressing her up against the door as he devours her with his mouth. It’s incredibly hot, and it’s also incredibly inappropriate for work. And she definitely finds herself panting from an entirely different kind of heat than the one she came into the Clubhouse to escape.

 

On the rare evenings where neither of them are working the night shifts, they usually end up back at her apartment. Killian’s been taking things surprisingly slow, and it’s then that she realizes the he’s been burned in the past, just like her. So she doesn’t question it and doesn’t complain. Just goes along at his pace, even if she knows he’s really just going along with her.

 

Sneaky bastard.

 

It’s one of those rare evenings when they’re sitting on the floor in front of her TV. She’s sitting in between his legs, leaned back into his pajama-clad chest, and he has his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, hand drawing random patterns at the skin exposed between her waist and her t-shirt.

 

They’re watching Parks and Recreation, a bit of a throwback to their first meeting, and Emma is completely zoned out to the world. But then Killian jokingly tells her that she should name the end of summer event _Palms and Recreation_.

 

She doesn’t quite understand him at first, but then she gets it. And she’s turning in his arms quickly, placing her palms on his chest and staring at him.

 

“What, love?” he asks, incredulous look in his eyes but a smile on his face.

 

She just puts her hands on either side of his face, cradling his cheeks, and kisses him slowly, lips moving against lips in a gentle dance. When his tongue starts to work its way at her bottom lip, she pulls back, and he groans at the lack of contact, lips swollen red.

 

“You’re going to go work now, aren’t you?” He doesn’t look disappointed, though. Just kind of has this affectionate closed-lip smile on his face, eyes crinkling as his lips are upturned.

 

“You bet your ass I am, babe,” she tells him, giving him one last quick kiss before getting up from his lap and grabbing her laptop, making all sorts of plans for the _Palms and Recreation_ end of the summer bash.

 

So Emma plans her event for the next few weeks, spending her daylight hours talking to vendors and working on menus, making sure she has all the right permits and ideas, spending more time creating an Instagram palette to promote the event than she ever thought was possible. But she spends the night hours with Killian, even when he’s working at the bar. More often than not, he finds her asleep in his office chair, legs pulled up underneath her and head resting on his desk.

 

 _Let’s go home, sweetheart_ , he’ll whisper to her as he helps her up, wrapping his arm around her waist as he walks her out to his truck and drives her to one of their apartments, letting her wrap her arms around his stomach as they climb into bed.

 

It’s the morning after a night like that when she realizes she loves him. It’s fast, and it’s _terrifying_. She’s never done this before, the getting to know someone as a person and the dating and the _love_. The last time she thought she was in love, she was eighteen, and it ended up being one of the biggest mistakes of her life.

 

But this doesn’t feel like a mistake. This feels right, in every sense of the word.

 

So when Killian wakes up, eyelids heavy and groggy smile on his face as he finds her propped up on her elbows on his chest, she can’t think of doing anything but kissing him at that very moment.

 

So she does.

 

And he’s obviously a little surprised at first and maybe a little bit sleepy because it takes him a second to kiss her back, but just a second and he’s there completely, lips moving against hers.

 

When she moves to crawl on top of him, legs on either side of his hips, he raises his eyebrows as if to say _just what do you think you’re doing, love_? She doesn’t say anything at first, just smiles sweetly at him as she grinds her hips into his, feeling exactly how much he wants her. And honestly, she doesn’t know how either of them have been able to wait this long.

 

“I love you,” she says simply, like she hasn’t just dropped a bombshell on him while grinding down onto his lap.

 

He puts his hands on her hips, pulling her away from him slightly, but holding her steady. He hasn’t said anything back yet, he’s just lying there with this incredulous look on his face, and it’s only freaking her out a little – a lot.  


Just as she starts to try to squirm out of his grip, he holds her tighter, and she thinks there might be bruises in the shape of his fingers later.

 

Finally, finally _, finally_ , he speaks. “I love you, Emma. More than anything.” He pauses for a moment, mischievous look on his face before adding, “more than all the palm trees in Palm Springs.”

 

He looks so proud of that, and she can’t help but laugh, mumbling a _more than all the palm trees in Palm Springs_ right back at him before she’s kissing him again, tongues fighting a battle for dominance before she lets him take over.

 

He’s lifting her t-shirt over her arms, and she lets him, raising her arms in compliance as he kisses every inch of bare skin as it’s exposed. Then he’s flipping them over, caging her in with his body possessively, protectively, _lovingly_ , and kissing down her neck, hot open-mouthed kisses that are sparking the match to light her on fire. When he gets to the freckle on the side of her right breast, he’s sucking a mark into her skin, finally branding her as _his_ , and the sharp pain of his teeth mixed with the soothing touch of his tongue feels like it’s going to burn her alive.

 

When their remaining clothes are shed and Killian is hovering over her again, looking at her and whispering _are you sure_ into her skin with the most loving look on his face. _Yes_ , she whispers right back, but it comes out as more of a moan because he’s sliding into her, slowly pumping back and forth, dragging against her, and it’s driving her insane in the most delicious way.

 

It goes on for what feels like forever, but when her body starts to pulse and she closes her eyes in ecstasy, she thinks that it could never last long enough. Killian grips her hips tighter – and yep, there will definitely be bruises in the shape of his fingers later – and after a few erratic thrusts, he’s collapsing on top of her, a weight that’s far more comfortable than it should be.

 

“I love you,” he says, kissing her again, a long, deep _satisfied_ kiss, before he rolls off of her and onto his side.

 

“I love you,” she says back, boneless and just…happy.

 

August cools into September – not really, but it’s now 95 degrees instead of 100 – and Emma is back into working nonstop again. It’s the end of the main tourist season, and as soon as the end of the summer party is finished and the resort isn’t booked to full capacity, she’s thinking of taking time off to go somewhere that’s actually cooler.

 

When she wakes up on the morning of the party, she’s antsy with nerves. Her bosses have explicitly stated that this party is huge for their summer profits, that people travel from all over the country just to spend the weekend – this weekend – here before they go back to school and to jobs and to responsibility.

 

She doesn’t have to be up until six, but her body wakes her up at a quarter until three with nerves, Killian’s arms around her waist with his body aligned tightly with hers. She tries to get up to go check on her laptop, to make sure all of her deliveries for the day are on track, but Killian’s arms tighten around her stomach, pulling her back to him.

 

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he mumbles against the back of her neck, scruff of his beard tickling her skin as he sleepily kisses behind her ear.

 

“I’m not tired,” she replies, trying to get out of bed once again. But he doesn’t let her, just holding on tighter.

 

“Yes, you are. You haven’t slept in days.”

 

“I’ll sleep tonight.”

 

He just grunts at her in response, starting to trace her hipbones with her fingers because if anything will get her to stay in bed, it’s that.

 

“Killian,” she says firmly, and he lets go of her, knowing when to pick his battles to win the overall war. “Thank you,” she tells him, getting out of bed and giving his cheek a kiss. “I’ll be a normal human being again soon. Promise”

 

As it turns out, all of her deliveries for the day are on track despite all of her worrying. All of the vendors show up on time, and they don’t forget anything they were supposed to bring. The sound system for the music works, and she lets out a big sigh of relief at that because it wouldn’t work for the wedding they hosted last week and if she was actually sleeping, she’d have nightmares from the way the mother of the bride had yelled at her as if she was putting a curse on her daughter’s marriage. The decorations go up around the pools and the docks surrounding the lake, fences and trees strung with lights for when the sun sets.

 

It looks perfect, and Emma could almost cry in relief.

 

She doesn’t though.

 

She just clips her headset on, attaches the battery pack to the belt loop in her shorts, and gets on with her day, letting the problems come to her as they happen and trying not to worry about them ahead of time – ahead of time being the operative word.

 

Because she definitely worries about them when they come.

 

The clock is ticking over from 1:59 AM to 2:00 AM when she’s _finally_ able to tell the DJ to turn the music off. Usually everything around the resort ends by 11:00 PM because technically they’re first and foremost a hotel and people need to sleep, but everything stays operating just a little later today. So as the music dies down and the bartenders stop pouring drinks, guests start to slowly filter out and make their way back to their rooms.

 

Emma still has to make sure everything is properly cleaned up though, so she doesn’t get around to being anywhere close to finished until exactly 4:42 AM. She’s been up for over 24 hours, and it’s finally starting to hit her.

 

She’s handled it pretty well though, if she does say so herself. That is, until she realizes that she has to make her way all the way to her apartment, and she just doesn’t think she can do that. She’s just going to lay down on this pool lounge chair. It’s totally fine and professional for the events coordinator to sleep outside on property grounds, right?

 

She really does consider it, even sitting down against the cushioned chair, but then suddenly Killian is there, pulling her up and leading her back to the parking lot.

 

The next thing she knows, she’s waking up in Killian’s bed, sheets smelling like his cologne and just this other thing that’s pure Killian, and the sun is blinding her even through the curtains. When she checks her phone, it’s five o’clock in the evening, and she’s been asleep for twelve hours.

 

She doesn’t move though, just cuddles back into bed and ignores the world for as long as she can.

 

She’s always been good at that.

 

But then Killian comes home an hour later, and she doesn’t want to ignore the world anymore. She wants to be an active participant in her own life. This wonderful, beautiful life that she’s built for herself out of literally nothing but a bus ticket from Phoenix to Palm Springs.

 

Doesn’t mean she’s not still tired though.

 

“Hello beautiful,” he greets her, climbing into bed next to her and giving her a quick kiss before pulling her into his side as he sits up against the headboard. “Did you get some sleep?”

 

“Woke up about an hour ago.”

 

“Good,” he tells her before adding on, “I’m so bloody proud of you, my love. Not a day goes by that I’m not amazed by you.”

 

She does end up taking the week off after the party. She doesn’t go somewhere cooler, though. She just treats herself to a week of relaxation at home, and it’s…wonderful. And if she happens to check her work emails while no one is around, well, that’s her little secret.

 

She does eventually have to go back to work and the real world, even if her real world is where other people go to get away from theirs. So life goes on, and she plans her corporate events and her weddings and a Halloween party with invitations saying _Trick or Treat Yo’ Self_ in honor of the Parks and Recreation theme she’s apparently got going on. Killian dressed up as a pirate, and she can’t even talk about how incredibly difficult it was for her to keep her focus on her job when he was wearing damn leather pants and had his shirt unbuttoned far too low, or maybe just right for her. But then he greeted her by saying _hello boo-tiful,_ cheeky grin on his face as he kissed her, and she couldn’t contain her laughter, want dying down in her belly but something decidedly more sentimental rising in her chest.

 

Eventually, Killian takes a job somewhere else – the traitor – but it’s okay because he gets to do a job that he really loves as a manager of water recreation for the city – apparently that’s a thing even in the desert – and if there’s one thing she’s learned about Killian Jones, it’s that he was made to be out on the water.

 

So she doesn’t get to see him at work anymore, and the new manager of the Clubhouse definitely doesn’t let her share his office. And while she misses seeing him during the day and getting to pop in on him just because she wants to see that beautiful face she loves, it’s okay. Because when she goes home at then end of the day, whenever that may be, he’s at the house that’s deed has both of their names on it – _property of Killian and Emma Jones_ – and she thinks that she’s got a pretty good thing going for her here, better than just quick kisses in the Clubhouse at lunch.

 

Of course, for someone who stumbled into planning parties for a living, she’s not entirely prepared for the one that’s thrown for her by all of her friends (after all these years it’s still just so weird to say) when her belly is swollen and she’s just so ready to meet this little life inside of her – and obviously plan parties for him for the rest of his life.

 

But then she looks at Killian who’s smiling down at her from his seat beside her, and she thinks that she’s never been more thankful for cheap bus fare from Phoenix to Palm Springs and for the pissed-off mom who yelled at her, making her walk into the Clubhouse because she needed a drink.

 

Her life is crazy and it’s weird, but it’s everything she so desperately wanted but never knew she needed.

 

And she loves it.

 

More than all the palm trees in Palm Springs.


End file.
